


Of Fate, Fiascos, and Flawless Eyeliner

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: TSC Oneshots [9]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Attempt at Humor, BAMF Magnus Bane, Circle Dipshits, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, M/M, Makeup, Pandemonium Club (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Pen Pals, Runes, Sort Of, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, it has magnus's backstory so, it's what the bond is called according to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25142374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: The fact that Alec was born with Marks should have been nothing to fuss about.  His birth would have been extraordinarily ordinary, nothing strange about it… if not for the fact that he came out of the womb with flawless eyeliner.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Series: TSC Oneshots [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659478
Comments: 18
Kudos: 320





	Of Fate, Fiascos, and Flawless Eyeliner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallenhurricane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenhurricane/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Intermission](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25044613) by [fallenhurricane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenhurricane/pseuds/fallenhurricane). 



> This is the second round of AU challenge fics with @fallenhurricane! This one is built off the ‘make-up’ from her fic, Intermission. I’m playing fast and loose with a lot of the shadowhunter chronicles lore and also the timelines of both the books and the show, so bear with me.

A long time ago, in a small village of the Dutch East Indies, a child was born. 

This child was not like other children. His conception held a secret, a terrible secret that drove his mother to suicide when he was five years old. This secret was the reason the child’s eyes scared anyone who looked at them, why his step-father tried to drown him in the river soon after his mother’s death, why he was sent to the order of Silent Brothers in Madrid, having thus been orphaned and cast out of his village. He was… _different_ _…_ from the locals. They watched, guarded, as he was led away, two gleaming green-gold cat’s eyes peering out at the world from under his dark bangs and magic running through his veins. They watched, and whispered, and said to each other that such a child would never find the beauty and the peace of having a soulmate, of being Marked by them, not in a hundred years.

They were right. In a sense, at least. The child wouldn’t have a soulmate, not in the first hundred years. Or the second. Or the third. No marks would appear on him until he was well over four hundred, after he’d discovered a new life and found a new name and created a new family. But that was fine. The child, now called Magnus Bane, never felt the need to look for his soulmate. He was the type of person to experience things as they came along, an immortal who understood that his soulmate—if he had one—might not arrive in his life for decades or even centuries. _You can_ _’t stop living your life on a maybe_ , he thought, playing the charango (badly) for his lover at the time. He lived for himself, doing up his make-up every morning—or, on mornings when he just so happened to be stupendously hungover, every afternoon—and just generally enjoying his time on this earth. If a soulmate was in the stars for him, then they would come. There was no need to rush it. He had all the time in the world, and flawless eyeliner to boot.

…Which was all well and fine. For him, anyway. Alexander Gideon Lightwood, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so lucky in the soulmate department. He was set off searching for his soulmate at the very moment of his birth, as he was born with his very first soulmarks. 

That wasn’t odd in itself—many Shadowhunter families, to which Alec belonged, were in the habit of drawing their family crest on their newborn’s forehead, to alert the people on the other end of the soulbond—if there was indeed a soulbond and there were indeed people waiting on the other end—that the child had been born. Shadowhunter soulmates were often born within months of one another, and thus would receive their first soulmarks as infants. So the fact that dear little Alec was born with Marks should have been nothing to fuss about. His birth would have been extraordinarily ordinary, nothing strange about it… if not for the fact that he came out of the womb with flawless eyeliner.

***

“There must be something you can do.”

Brother Zachariah, the current soulscribe of the order of the Silent Brothers, stood fast. His sacred Silent Brother runes dulled his emotions nearly to flatlines, but even so there was a twinge of annoyance deep inside him at Maryse Lightwood’s _insistent tone_.

 _There is nothing to be done_ , he spoke in the minds of the couple standing before him.

Maryse huffed, looking sidelong at her husband and the sleeping baby in his arms. 

Brother Zachariah stood strong, staring at her. This wouldn’t be the first time that a Lightwood had said something not very nice about him. The Lightwoods were well known to be among the worst of the Shadowhunters—it was especially evident to the citizens of the Downworld, of which Brother Zachariah was not, though he sympathized greatly. 

Alas, these Lightwoods were no longer the politically affluent teenagers that they had once been. The Circle, of which they were once part, had gone rogue and been declared an enemy of the Shadowhunters’ ruling body, the Clave. They were traitors, and if it weren’t for the very infant in Robert’s arms they would have been cast out of their home country, Idris, altogether, cursed to never again see the light of day beyond the windows of the New York Institute. They were in a precarious position—one misstep and they _would_ be cast out and cursed. Brother Zachariah, if he’d had any emotional stake in the matter, would have thought this to be a very good reason not to argue with the soulscribe.

And yet. “There are ways to make a bond dormant. Can’t you force it?”

 _The only way to make a bond dormant is for a pair of soulmates to fulfill the bond via touch,_ Brother Zachariah said. _There is no other way._

Maryse’s lip curled further. She had an unsettling look in her eyes. It was as if knowing that her son’s soulmate was an immortal and a downworlder—which said soulmate probably was, there was no doubt about that—was inherently repulsive to her. 

“Well,” she said, finally, after a long and uncomfortable moment for everyone involved. “In that case, we’ll just have to find his soulmate, won’t we?”

***

Magnus heard about the party. He was sure that there were very few people who hadn’t heard about the party. It was a very big deal, after all—the Lightwoods were offering an incredibly large sum of money to any downworlder and immortal who proved to be the soulmate of their newborn son. 

It was ridiculous, if you were to ask Magnus. Not least of all because they’d only opened invitations to downworld women. Magnus had never heard of a gay Shadowhunter, but alas, perhaps that was simply because they pigeon-holed them into heterosexuality so young. The closet for a Shadowhunter in general could probably rival the walk-in that Magnus stored his three-hundred silk shirts in, and the closet for a Lightwood in particular would, undoubtedly, be akin to Narnia.

Rolling his eyes, Magnus put the Lightwood baby out of his mind. At least, he did… until he reached the mirror in his bedroom and found a rather disheartening mark on his forehead. Or rather, a Mark. His first ever soulmark. 

He stared at it for a long moment, mouth agape and his martini forgotten in his hand.

That was the Lightwood crest. Maryse and Robert must have marked their newborn with it to determine which of the lovely downworld women at their party was their son’s soulmate. Which would mean that _Magnus_ was their son’s soulmate. Magnus, four hundred years old and the exact opposite of a Shadowhunter. Magnus, who shared a mutual hatred with the entire Lightwood bloodline. Magnus, who was, in fact, a man. 

…God. _Damnit_. 

***

The party, as most parties are, was, of course, a resounding failure. As were every single attempt to find Alec’s soulmate that his parents made after that. Thus Alec Lightwood grew up, looked upon with pity and resentment, his face forever adorned with make-up. 

He wrote to his soulmate, sometimes, in the dead of night—asking them to come, to fulfill the bond, saying that they didn’t have to stay if they didn’t want to but that his parents were mad so please. His pleas appeared in a kindergartner’s handwriting on Magnus’s wrists, written with a child’s markers, heart wrenching in their sincerity… but alas, Magnus knew that to do such a thing would reveal to Alec’s parents that his soulmate was, in fact, a man, and no matter how much he hated the Lightwoods he could not out their son before he was ready. 

_Not yet, little one_ , he wrote back. _Not yet_.

As if in retaliation, it was only a year later that Alec bore his first rune—a glamour rune, one that would hide his soulmarks from prying eyes. Magnus _fumed_ when he saw it, scrawled across his upper arm—Alec was a _child_ , hardly six years old, and they were already subjecting him to the pain of runes? Shadowhunters… _barbaric_ , the lot of them.

It took three martinis before Magnus’s rage-shaken hands were steady enough to brush a layer of concealer onto the rune, hiding it from view. _There_ , he thought, looking at it in the mirror. _Now no one will know_. Just like no one will know that he’s put on extra eyeliner and dressed himself to the nines in silk and glitter. Except Alec. Just Alec.

Magnus sighed, looking at his reflection for a long time. He wasn’t sure what to think of this Lightwood just yet—he was only six, after all—but he felt like he needed to say something, to console him, to tell him that the world wasn’t full of people like the people who have given him his first rune to glamour his soulmarks away. With care, Magnus took out a marker and inked the words, _I_ _’m sorry_ on his left arm, just below the space where he’d covered the rune.

I’m sorry for your Marks, he meant. I’m sorry for the glamour. I’m sorry that I couldn’t come, couldn’t ease your burden.

I’m sorry, little one… _forgive me_.

***

That was the last thing that Magnus wrote to Alec for a long, long time. At first, Alec was angry. Why couldn’t his soulmate just come? What could be so wrong about a simple request like that? 

It took a while, but eventually he came to realize, as he supposed he was always meant to do, why the older man couldn’t come to fulfill the bond. The issue lay right there— _man_. Alec Lightwood was, in every sense of the word except for perhaps the one that meant _happy_ , a gay man—which would in turn mean that his soulmate was also, in fact, a man.

Unless, of course, Fate had decided that the life of Alec Lightwood was not royally fucked enough. He wouldn’t have been particularly surprised.

He sighed, leaning against a console in the Ops center. He was eighteen and, at the moment, doing his absolute best to ignore one of his fellow male teens, a feat which was becoming harder and harder with every passing second. Girls this and soulmates that—it was insufferable, and Alec was going to snap in five.

“Bet your soulmate is a real pretty one.”

Four.

“You know, unless she’s overcompensating for something with that make-up.”

Three.

“Just saying, it could really go either way—”

Two.

“—though it’s kind of odd that she covers up your runes sometimes, don’t you think?”

 _One_.

Alec pushed off the console, crossing his arms and stepping into the other Shadowhunter’s space. The guy was covered in Marks—a dash of make-up, like Alec, but also in writing and not-so-great doodles and duplicate runes that were undoubtedly his soulmate’s. 

He rolled his eyes up at Alec, taking in his threatening posture. “Touchy, much?” he asked, though his voice was slightly less sure of itself than it was a moment ago. 

“I’m going to give you some advice,” Jace said, sauntering between the two of them before Alec could reply. “It goes like this: _don_ _’t_ insult the soulmate of the guy that gives you all your assignments. Honestly, man, you’d think you’d have figured that one out by now.”

The guy rolled his eyes, but he shut up and sidled out all the same, leaving Jace and Alec side by side, Alec cutting his eyes over to Jace. Jace, who had beautiful art all up and down his hands and arms and even across his neck and chest. Jace, who Alec used to wish could be his soulmate. Jace, who had provided comfort and torment in equal measures throughout the years. 

“You okay?” Jace asked, and Alec nodded, pushing thoughts of his soulmate down, down, down…

***

…as up, up, _up_ the Circle member went, Magnus’s magic threaded like a noose around his neck, on the other side of the city and some time down the line.

“Circle scum is not _welcome_ in my club,” Magnus hissed, watching the man gasp and choke. It had been a while since Circle members had been bold enough—or stupid enough—to get so close to him, but he wasn’t exactly surprised to find one or two crawling around. Shadowhunters and their politics never could leave him alone. He exhaled, his golden-green eyes flashing. “ _Out_.”

He watched, uninterested, as the two Circle members scrambled over each other in their haste to get out of Pandemonium. It was only after they were out the door that Magnus realized that the deflect rune on his neck was on full display. He’d grown used to wearing his Marks out in the open when he was at the club—he’d been subject to enough Downworld laughter to be mostly immune to it. The Downworld knew his business, and he was used to that. What he was NOT used to was Circle members getting up in his face and realizing that he had the Marks of the acting head of the New York Shadowhunter Institute right there on his neck.

Fuck. He was regretting never coming into contact with Alexander right about now. 

_Though honestly,_ he thought, _what could happen?_ He snapped a martini to his fingers and sipped at it thoughtfully. He was sure the answer was _not much_.

***

The news of Magnus Bane’s kidnapping spread like wildfire. He hated being wrong, in case anyone was wondering. Not that his kidnappers cared much for his opinion—they were hoping to lure Alexander to him so that they could capture them both and use them against each other. It was a lovely idea, except the part where they had captured Magnus Fucking Bane, soulmate to Alexander Fucking Lightwood. The poor Circle members had no idea what was coming for them.

Magnus said as much, slurring his words to the younger warlock, Dot, who was fairly certain that Magnus was high as a kite. She sighed, resting her head against the bars of the cage she was in. Valentine, the leader of the Circle and a vile man, was busy in another room at the moment—he wasn’t around to hear Magnus going on about his soulmate. Who, for the record, he hadn’t even _met_ yet. She thought it was rather ironic how far gone Magnus was for a man he hadn’t even met in person. A man who was a _Shadowhunter_ , to boot. A Shadowhunter who was, at this very moment, being accosted by a horde of Downworlders who had gone to the New York Institute _en masse_ with the sole purpose of giving him a piece of their minds in regards to his soulmate.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Alec said, holding a hand up to his head and ignoring the _looks_ his siblings were giving him. He was very much feeling as if he wasn’t hearing this right. “My soulmate… is who, now? My soulmarks are _where_?”

 _Magnus Bane_ , the crowd said, insistent. Apparently he heard right the first time.

Alec had exchanged letters and phone calls with Magnus, who had been elected High Warlock of Brooklyn sometime in the last century. He had never met the man face to face, not even when he came to adjust the magical warding on the Institute.

Magnus was confident. He was amazing. He had never had a problem speaking his mind, or being out, or accepting his place in the world. Alec was as different from Magnus as it was possible for a person to be… but he thought about the hand that once said _I_ _’m sorry_ and he realized that none of that mattered. His soulmate needed him.

“Go,” said Raphael, head of the local vampire coven. His suit was sharp and his eyes were sharper. “…And when you get him, tell him not to worry us like that again.”

***

Alec barged into the compound from the far side just in time to see a red-blue fireball light the sky. He whistled, quite impressed by the display. A long time ago, in a small village of the Dutch East Indies, a child was born—four hundred years later, this child would become known for being the first warlock to escape from Valentines infernal prisons. He then became the first warlock to swoon into Alec Lightwood’s strong, capable arms. 

The Downworlders really needn’t have worried. Magnus, for all intents and purposes, was doing fine. 

The same couldn’t be said for Alec. He had always known that his soulmeeting wouldn’t be a normal, organic, everyday occurrence. He wasn’t going to run into his soulmate on the street, or at an art event, or even on a soulmate forum. He didn’t think that he’d have the most beautiful man he’d ever seen quite literally swoon into his arms, however.

Stupid, really. Alec really should have known better than to expect anything less from a man who had been wearing flawless eyeliner since before Alec himself was born. He laughed in surprise, looking down at the golden-green eyes lined with black that were slowly blinking up at him. “Is it time yet?” he asked, lips quirking up.

“Darling, I’m ready whenever you are,” said the man in his arms.

And that, dear friends, was that.


End file.
